


stripped (down to the bone)

by abovetheruins



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Cabin Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 07:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12577068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: Jim pulls Oswald from the river and discovers a closely guarded secret in the process.





	stripped (down to the bone)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Gotham Buddy Exchange gift for dandydevildog! They asked for a Halloween setting or horror elements, which made me immediately want to write about werewolves! Somehow that transitioned into me writing 'Jim cares for Oswald post- _The Gentle Art of Making Enemies_ and also Oswald happens to be a werewolf' territory, though, so I'm not sure if this is exactly what they wanted, but I hope they enjoy it nonetheless!

Jim's shoulders bunch as he brings down the axe, cleaving yet another log in two. He tosses both halves on the pile building by his feet, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. His breath mists in the cold air, and he shivers despite the warmth of exertion flushing his body.

He cuts a couple more logs and carts his load into the cabin. It's a modest dwelling, surprising for anything owned by the Waynes, though the interior illustrates the wealth of its owners well enough - the great brick fireplace, the soft leather upholstery, the tasteful yet elegant paintings displayed throughout.

Bruce hadn't asked questions when Jim had called. Neither had Alfred; he'd just provided the address when Jim had asked for a secure location beyond city limits and wished him luck in whatever foolhardy errand he'd landed himself with this time. They had both seemed distracted, and Jim reminds himself to pay a visit to the pair as soon as he's back in Gotham.

He pauses in the threshold as he toes off his boots, taking in the sole occupant stretched out on the couch in the living area. Wrapped in blankets, only a tuft of lank black hair visible, Oswald Cobblepot sleeps like the dead. 

Jim's jaw clenches. When he'd fished Oswald from the river a couple of weeks ago, he nearly _had_ been dead. Skin pale and ice cold, the bullet wound in his gut leaking blood - and, even more alarming - smoke. 

Jim had quickly dug out the slug with his pocket knife; he'd had no choice. Any longer in his bloodstream and Oswald would have succumbed to silver poisoning. He was still fighting off the infection now, though he was, for the most part, out of the woods at this point.

Still, it had been in his best interest to get out of Gotham, at least for a while.

Lee had given Jim an indecipherable look when he'd outlined his plan, or at least as little of it as he felt was safe to tell her. She'd been the only one he trusted to see to Oswald; Gotham General was too risky, especially when he still hadn't known how the man had wound up in the river in the first place. 

"Feeling responsible, Jim?" she'd asked.

Faced with a question like that, Jim had remembered a long ago dream, the echo of gunfire and Oswald by his side. On its heels had raced a memory that still left a sour taste in his mouth - Oswald pale and pleading for help, clad in black and white asylum garb.

He had avoided answering Lee, but there was no denying what he'd felt as he'd pulled Oswald from the river and dug the silver bullet from his gut. 

" _They know, Jim. Strange, he knows about me. He's torturing me, Jim. Silver, so much silver. You have to help me_."

Jim kneels by the grate, tossing a fresh log into the fire. The warmth of the flames against his face helps to drive the chill from his body, but not from his bones. 

He'd known there was something off about Strange, but he'd ignored his instincts, left Oswald to endure whatever was being done to him, and played the good hero as if he'd done nothing wrong. 

Maybe that's why he was doing this, keeping Oswald from the dangers lurking in Gotham until he was back to full strength - trying to make amends for his past mistakes. Trying to assuage the guilt that still curdled thick and sour in his gut whenever he remembered Oswald's pale, drawn face. 

He peers at the man, caught off guard by the pale green eyes regarding him from beneath mussed, dark bangs.

"How long have you been awake?" he asks.

Oswald's bony shoulder shrugs beneath his blankets. "A few minutes," he says, his voice soft and worn. He hesitates, murmurs, "You look cold."

Jim shakes his head. The warmth of the fire has chased the worst of the chill away. "I'm alright. What about you?"

Oswald huffs a soft, bitter laugh and turns his head into his pillow. "I'll live." He doesn't sound particularly pleased about the prospect.

Jim's fingers twitch; he wishes he had something to occupy them with. "Tomorrow - " he begins, only to be cut off by Oswald's voice snapping, "I know, James. I know."

The full moon. The first since Nygma had shot him.

Jim doesn''t know the specifics and Oswald had only volunteered so much - that he had acted rashly, angered Ed, and that it had been Ed who tried to kill him.

The rest Jim had been able to discern from talk around town (Gotham may have hoarded her secrets like gold, but its citizens weren't quite so careful): the fate of the librarian, Ed's machinations to ruin Oswald's reputation, and finally the confrontation at the pier. 

"He could have shot me in the heart," Oswald had told him, eyes fever-bright. He had been insensate, lost in the throes of the infection wrought by the silver bullet. "It would have done the job. But no, no, he wanted me to _suffer_ , James. To feel the silver creeping into my bloodstream. To die slowly."

The fact that Ed had known to use silver at all was telling enough. Jim had a feeling that not many people knew about Oswald's... peculiarity. Strange had discovered it but apparently kept it under wraps (not out of human decency but purely for his own gain, Jim was sure). And Jim... Jim had had no idea. He'd never heard any rumors, though he probably wouldn't have believed them even if he had. 

Oswald had never told him.

Jim doesn't know why he's surprised about that. He should be relieved that, at least in this regard, Oswald's sense of self-preservation had overridden his old desperation for Jim's friendship. A secret like that, you kept it close, guarded it. You had to.

That Oswald had told Ed, maybe even shown him, and had wound up in the river anyway... Well. Jim was familiar with that pain - having someone you love wind up hating you. Being the cause of that hate.

_Kindred spirits_ , he thinks with a rueful grimace, sinking into the armchair by the fire. Hadn't Oswald always said they were similar? Christ.

Jim studies the man, taking in his tired eyes and the drawn, unhappy line of his mouth. "Is there anything I can do?" he starts, "when you - " He trails off, unsure. _When you turn_.

Oswald's eyes cut to him, a swift, fierce look crossing his face. "You'll do nothing," he says. "Leave me outside and let me pass the night in peace."

Jim shoots a pointed look at his gut, hidden beneath layers of blankets. "You're recovering from a bullet wound. If turning is as traumatic as I've read - "

Oswald flushes (with embarrassment rather than true anger, Jim thinks privately). "I don't need you to coddle me, James."

Jim raises an eyebrow. "I've spent the past two weeks nursing you through an infection, Oswald. I'm not letting you die because of your damn pride."

Oswald's eyes widen, his lips parting for a moment before he laughs. It's not a pleasant sound, high and reedy and on the verge of becoming hysterical before it tapers off. "My _pride_ , James? Pride has nothing to do with it." His eyes go liquid and dark, the anger leeching from his body to be replaced with worn resignation. "I've dealt with worse. Leave me be, Jim. Please." 

Jim turns away, uncomfortable with the raw emotion on Oswald's face. _Fuck_. "Alright," he says gruffly, and pretends he doesn't hear Oswald's sigh of relief.

//

The following day is tense with the knowledge of what's to come. Jim makes a simple breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast, and watches Oswald like a hawk until the other man cleans his plate. It's slow going; Oswald is still weak, though Jim is relieved to see that the bullet wound has closed and remains clean and free of the red hot flush of infection that had mottled Oswald's skin not long ago. He changes the bandages and fishes out the antibiotics that Lee had given him to administer, a little of the tension easing from his shoulders. He had read that those afflicted with lyncanthropy benefited from an increased rate of healing, but the silver in the wound had compounded things. The infection that had ravaged Oswald's system had left him worn and tired, and increased healing or not, Jim had no idea how the trauma of turning would affect Oswald's weakened body.

Despite his promise the night before, Jim has no intention of leaving Oswald to his own devices during the change. He's liable to get himself killed if Jim allows him to traipse off into the forest by himself, and Jim won't have that happening on his watch.

They don't talk about the coming night. In fact, they don't talk at all. They exist in mutual silence instead, Oswald curled in the armchair with a book in hand and a blanket over his lap and Jim pouring over some cold case files he'd brought along to keep busy. It's a comfortable silence, surprisingly enough. Companionable, even. Jim finds the absence of traffic and the glare of city lights a boon rather than a detriment. Gotham is his home, always will be, but sometimes Jim feels the weight of the city pressing down on his shoulders hard enough to crush him. Out here, where there's nothing but snow and the whistle of the winter wind through the trees, he feels as though he can breathe. It's a temporary fix for both of them, but so long as they're here, they might as well enjoy the respite.

As the sun begins to wane outside, however, Jim's mind wanders from the files spread out before him to the approaching night. Oswald's insistence that he be left alone isn't a request that he can grant in good conscious; there are too many variables, too many unknowns that Jim can't leave up to chance, and spending the night in the cabin warmed by the fire while Oswald hides away in the cold and dark doesn't sit right with him. He's not naive enough to think that he wouldn't do the same thing if he were in Oswald's position, seeking isolation rather than companionship during a moment of weakness or agony, but he also can't sit idly by and just wait for morning.

The clearing of a throat draws him from his thoughts; he's surprised to glance up from his work and see Oswald with two mugs in hand, steam wafting gently from the contents.

"What's this?" he asks, leaning back in the chair. His back and shoulders ache from being hunched over for too long, and he winces as he rubs the back of his neck, stretching the kinks out.

"Coffee," Oswald says, lips twitching in a smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it's an attempt. "It's not much. I'm afraid I've never had much stomach for the stuff, but I learned a few things in my tenure as a kitchen boy. Here." He presses the mug into Jim's hands, and curls his fingers around his own. "Hot cocoa," he explains at Jim's glance, hesitating before adding, "My mother... Well, she would always make it for me in the colder months, whenever I was sad or worried about... nights like these."

Jim nods, doesn't quite know what to say. The heaviness of grief is all too familiar to him, as is the loss of a parent - yet another commonality they share, he thinks wryly - and he knows from experience that, at least in these cases, there's little to be said that can offer much comfort. Sometimes the simple act of understanding is enough.

"My father used to let me take sips of his coffee back when I was a kid," he says. "It tasted like chalk to me back then, but it made me feel like an adult. An equal." He chuckles. "My mom hated it. Told me I was too young."

"Parents can be overprotective," Oswald replies, a soft, tired smile curling his lips. "They just want what's best for us, in the end."

Jim nods, his throat working around a sudden lump. He takes a sip of his coffee to cover up his reaction, his shoulders slumping as the warmth pours down his throat. He makes a pleased noise at the bite of alcohol that follows, sharp and sweet, and Oswald's smile deepens into something free of remembered sorrow. It softens the sharp angles of his face, makes him appear younger than his years. It's a good look on him.

"I remember how much you enjoy your whiskey, Jim," he says, and reaches to curl his hand around Jim's shoulder. It's a brief touch, but his warmth lingers moments after he's walked away, and Jim takes another long sip of coffee to distract himself from the sensation before going back to his files.

He wakes with a start to a log popping in the grate, peering with bleary eyes at the documents spread out around him. His back aches from falling asleep at the table, and he rubs at the bend of his spine as he rises up, confused.

"Oswald?" he calls, glancing around the empty cabin. The fire crackles merrily in the grate, Oswald's book and blanket sit abandoned on the armchair, and the sky outside the windows is dark.

Jim stills. _Dark_.

_Shit_.

"Oswald?" he calls again, rising to his feet and heading down the hallway to the bedrooms. They're empty, too, as are the bathrooms and the kitchen. Jim pauses as he spots the pill bottle sitting innocently on the counter, half-hidden behind a fruit bowl,. Sleeping pills, provide by Lee in case the pain of Oswald's healing wound should keep him awake at night. Jim curses, grabbing for his leather jacket and stuffing his feet into boots, ignoring the lingering drowsiness in his limbs.

He opens the door to a burst of cold air and immediately freezes. Blood. Drops of it, leading off into the woods.

"Goddamnit, Oswald," he grunts, his boots crunching in the snow as he gives chase. His breath escapes in a white cloud as he runs, heart jammed into his throat as the single drops soon become globs of crimson in the snow.

Oswald couldn't have gotten far, not if he was hurt, and Jim pumps his legs as he heads deeper into the woods, eyes peeled for any signs of the other man. It doesn't take long to find him. He's slumped in the snow at the base of a tree, his thin shoulders trembling and his fingers clasping weakly at the bark. Jim can hear the labored rush of his breath and falters at the sight of blood clinging to his hands and dripping sluggishly down his arms. _Shit_ ,

"Oswald," he calls, sinking to his knees beside the gangster. Oswald's head is lowered, his eyes clenched shut and his breath rattling in his lungs. Jim reaches out to touch his shoulder, only to be pushed away with a strength that draws him up short.

"Go _away_ , Jim," Oswald bites out. Jim wavers at the sight of his face - sweat shines on his brow, his lips pulled away from his teeth in a snarl. Teeth that have lengthened, bursting from his gums in thick, sharp points.

"I'm not leaving," Jim says, moving as close as he dares without touching the other man. A choked growl rumbles warningly in Oswald's throat, his fingers digging into the tree bark. His nails have burst from his skin, growing black and hard, and blood drips down his hands. A quick glance at his abdomen shows Jim that his sweater is free of blood; the trail he'd followed must have come from Oswald's hands instead of his stomach wound. Small mercies, that.

Oswald's back arches, a pained cry escaping his throat. Jim hears the crunch of bone and feels nausea welling in his throat as Oswald scrabbles at his sweater, struggling to pull it off. The wide, pale swath of his back gleams in the moonlight, the knobs of his spine pushing at his skin, twisting, _changing_.

"I don't want you to _see_ ," Oswald rasps wetly, his voice choked on a sob. He gives up with his sweater, curling his fingers into fists as his body trembles and shakes, his insides twisting in bright, sharp agony.

"Oswald," Jim breathes, reaching for his sweater, pulling it over his mussed hair. "I can't leave you alone. I'm sorry. I have to make sure you're alright."

Oswald howls, a low, ragged cry of pain as he twists in the snow. Jim watches in silent awe and morbid fascination as his face extends, his jaws unhinging with a meaty snap, _growing_. The crunch of bone echoes in the otherwise silent forest - the chitter of animals in the brush has all but disappeared - interspersed with Oswald's trembling moans and agonized grunts. Joints bend and snap, his ribcage expanding. Along each swath of skin bursts thick, black fur.

It only takes a few moments but seems to last forever. Jim is numb and frozen by the end of it, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the great black wolf slumped in the snow. It's a massive creature, dark as pitch, but its eyes - pale and green - are familiar.

"Oswald," Jim rasps, hands twitching in his lap. He doesn't dare reach out, doesn't dare move at all. He's been on the receiving end of Oswald's anger before, and he doesn't feel like testing his chances while Oswald is in this form.

Oswald growls, low and rough, lips pulling back from his gums. His eyes pierce into Jim's.

Jim can imagine what he's thinking. _Did you get your fill? Are you satisfied now?_

Guilt churns in his stomach. Oswald's body language is tight and closed off, his great shoulders hunched and his ears pressed flat to his large, dark head.

"I didn't come out here to gawk at you," Jim assures. He climbs to his feet, the knees and legs of his jeans soaked through with snow. "Look, maybe it's... No, I _know_ it's hard to believe that I want to help you, but it's the truth, Oswald." He takes a cautious step forward, words tripping on his tongue. Damn it, he's never been good at this.

Oswald takes a step back and freezes, but it's too late. Jim has already seen his back leg quake and stiffen, has noticed the odd way Oswald holds it, his weight settled on his other side so as not to put pressure on that leg.

Jim sighs out a long breath, recalling Oswald's pointed words yesterday: _My pride, James? Pride has nothing to do with it_. Suddenly, Oswald's insistence that he be left alone, even at the risk of his own health, makes a little more sense.

"I'm not leaving you out in the cold all night," he says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I'll leave you alone if that's what you want, but only if you come back to the house. Okay?"

He waits, keeping his stance slack and accommodating despite the shudders racing through his frame. He'll catch his own death out here, but not before Oswald follows him back to the cabin. Otherwise Jim will plop down in the snow and wait out the night here. Oswald isn't the only one who can be stubborn.

Oswald releases a cloud of breath, somehow managing to convey annoyance and anger in equal measure even without the aid of a human face. Jim stands his ground, raising a brow, and nearly smiles at the look Oswald gives him in return, his lips turned down and his eyes distinctly unamused.

But he jerks his head to the cabin, twisting to start in that direction, and Jim follows along with a quiet sigh of relief.

He can't help but study Oswald as he moves, watching the muscles of his shoulders roll beneath his pelt of thick, dark fur, the twitch of his long tail, and the large footprints he leaves behind in the snow. He walks with a stuttered gait, the same way he moves as a human, but it isn't awkward or clumsy. Oswald has learned to live with his scars, to stride forward - to thrive - despite them, and Jim can admit, even if only to himself, that he admires that tenacity.

He nudges the cabin door open for Oswald once they return, watching as he squeezes through the threshold and shakes out his fur. Jim wastes little time in moving to the guest room and stripping out of his wet clothes, slipping on a comfortable pair of sleep pants and a t-shirt before moving to the master bedroom and stripping the bedding from the mattress. He carries his hoard into the living room and deposits it in front of the fireplace, making a nest out of the soft sheets and downy comforter.

Oswald still hasn't moved from his spot by the door. He blends into the shadows, the bulk of his body hidden within the darkness save the gleam of his green eyes. Jim feels a little stripped beneath the weight of that stare, and the shiver that wracks his body has little to do with the cold.

"Come on," he says, waving Oswald forward and ignoring his own body's strange reaction. Oswald gives him an unreadable look, his position fixed, and Jim sighs. "You can sleep here. I'll take the guest room. You'll be alone, like you wanted."

Oswald hesitates before moving forward, and Jim marvels once more at the sheer size of him. It's such a disconnect from the form he's used to, but not so much that he can't reconcile the image of the slight gangster with the dark wolf striding toward him. Oswald has always managed to take up a room with the size of his presence alone; it's just a little more literal in this form.

Jim stands to leave, true to his word, but Oswald makes a low grumbling sound, shaking his head and pawing at the nest of blankets on the floor.

Surprise colors Jim's tone - surprise, and a kernel of satisfaction. "You want me to stay?"

Oswald growls, low in his throat, and inclines his head. It's the clearest sign of permission Jim is bound to get.

"Well, come on," he coaxes, slumping onto the nest until his back is cradled by soft sheets. He closes his eyes as the warmth from the fire sweeps over his body, chasing the chill from his skin.

He suppresses a smile at the soft click of claws on the wooden floor, Oswald's tread slow and cautious. The scent of smoke and a tinge of animal musk fills his nose as Oswald settles beside him, legs curled underneath his massive body. His tail whisks side to side once, brushing against Jim's legs, before he falls still.

Jim turns his head, slowly opening his eyes. Oswald's head lays a scant distance from his own, his muzzle pressed to the sheets and his eyes closed. Sensing Jim's gaze, one lid parts to reveal a pale green pupil. Their contact holds for a moment before Oswald rolls his eye and turns his head, huffing out a breath.

Jim laughs, low and soft, and closes his eyes again. He falls asleep to the warmth of the flames and the heat of the creature - of Oswald - by his side.

 

He wakes in the morning to pale sunlight streaming through the windows, Oswald curled, pale and human again, in his arms. Oswald's face, still worn and a little ashen around the eyes, remains still and peaceful in slumber, and Jim swallows roughly, tightens his grip around the other man's shoulders, and goes back to sleep.


End file.
